I learned a new word this week. Pentheraphobia is a fear of your mother-in-law. While I was never afraid of mine, I know people who cower at the mere mention of their mother-in-law’s name—and with good reason.
Mothers are a protective lot. Sometimes overly protective. If her Baby stops by, or calls to vent about a relationship problem with a spouse, whose side do you think Mommy is going to take?
The tension escalates when Baby’s spouse appears to be “a lazy, no good, worthless piece of horse dung.” To which the spouse responds by pointing out Mommy’s exceptional talent as “an overbearing, Nazi witch.” Now, the table is set for a long and resentful relationship.
Sounds like fun, doesn’t it?
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our resident advice guru on Outlaw In-Laws is Jeanne Phillips Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise in madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Detective Lowry’s phone hadn’t stopped ringing since the release of the murder victim’s name. Confessions poured in. At first only ten people admitted to the crime, but that number had passed twenty-five and was still growing each day.
It seems everyone who’d encountered the old Scot wanted to see him get his just deserves. According to Medical Examiner Gayer, the causes of death were drowning, strangulation, blunt trauma, knife wounds, and gunshots, among other things.
“This man truly died a thousand deaths,” Gayer said.
“It could’ve been worse.” Lowry shook his head. “At least he wasn’t trampled by pink pachyderms.”
We were at my daughter’s house the other day and she was watching “Hollywood Medium” on TV. This is a show where a handsome young man scribbles on a notepad while visiting with celebrities about their deceased relatives.
It seems to me that people in the income bracket these actors enjoy could afford someone a step above “Medium.” Why settle for average, or middle-of-the-road when you could order a “Supreme?”
If I was going to the time, trouble, and expense of hiring a psychic, I’d at least try to get one who could provide me the winning numbers for the next Mega-Millions Jackpot.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our wave-swept leader (who writes to her invisible friend, “Friday,” on Wednesdays) is Robin Crusoe Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise in madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
copyright – Susan Eames
Darren was a patient man, but his patience was wearing thin. The minutes turned into hours, and the days into weeks.
From his perch high above the sand, he scanned the distant horizon in hopes of seeing a tiny spec that would grow into a boat or seaplane.
He’d grown accustomed to the long days, and the even longer, lonely nights. The only thing that kept him going was a dream of deliverance. Shaking from the hunger pangs he punched in the 800 number and waited.
“Hello. Domino’s?” He shouted into the phone. “Where’s my damn pizza?”
Since retiring, I’ve had to brush up on some of the skills I hadn’t used in a while. There’s always something to do around here and it’s really helps to be incompetent. If not, chances are I’ll be assigned more chores than I care to perform.
Being incompetent takes a lot of forethought and planning for most people, but for me, it just seems to come naturally. When I size up a task or project, I don’t even have to think about how to screw it up. It just happens. How’d I get to be so lucky?
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the cat-herder who drives this clowder of 100-word authors is Jessie Chisholm Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
You know what I love best about being a professional moss watcher, Rochelle? It requires such a high level of focus and Zen-like concentration that I sometimes fall into a meditative trance. Has that ever happened to you?
More times than I can count, Sandra. Last week, I got so caught up in the action that pigeons mistook me for a statue. It took three days to get the white washed out of my hair, and girl at Belton Laundry refused to clean the last blouse I took in. Nowadays, you’ll never catch me watching moss without a hat.
Monday night, I ordered a sandwich at an Arby’s in Fayetteville. The young lady who took my order appeared to be 19 to 21years old (a college student?).
“Got a name?” she asked. Naturally, my first thought was a smart-ass remark, but I simply replied, “Russell.” She keyed it in on the register and handed me my ticket. It read, “RUSTLE.”
While I’ve been known to shuffle through a pile of dry leaves, I’ve never had the urge to steal cattle. I wasn’t sure if she was trying to be funny, or if she typically slept through English class. Where the hell are the Spelling & Grammar Police when you need them?
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our facilitator is graduate cum laude from Walla Walla Bing Bang Art & Drama Institute, the infamous Le Petite Voleur Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
There are several types of beating sticks on the market.
One is the never popular Ugly Stick. You may know someone who’s been beaten with one of these. Or perhaps they fell from the top of an Ugly Tree and struck every branch on the way down.
Sadly, no amount of make-up or cosmetic surgery can restore the beauty stolen by an encounter with the Ugly Stick. To make matters worse, the ugly gene becomes embedded in the DNA and passed down for twelve generations.
If you have this gene, don’t blame your wife for having an affair with the mailman.
Have you ever been accused of rambling? Are you the kind of person who likes to talk just to hear their head rattle? Me neither.
People like us don’t mince words. We get right to the point. If you ask us what time it is, we’re not going to spend half-a-day telling you how to build a watch.
Do you know someone who does? I bet you do. You may even live next door to one of these talk-a-holics. Let it all out. Tell me how they drive you up the wall.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, our head seamstress and fabricator of 100-word stories is Betsy Ross Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise of madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the ensemble of practicing fic-titioners in the writers in FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Coffee spewed from the chief’s nose and mouth.
“You want to do WHAT? Lowry, you’ve lost your freakin’ mind!”
“I know bringing in mimes for a line-up sounds unusual, Chief, but how many mimes can there be in the Kansas City area. We’ve got some good photos of the suspect, and Mr. Wingnut volunteered to look over the line-up.”
“Two mimes would be two too many. And how do you propose to find these mimes?”
The chief rose and walked around the desk.
“Do you have a mime detector?” He made a sweeping motion as if searching for explosives.
*an excerpt from Criminal Mimes
“Did you hear about Schroeder from the Peanuts cartoon?” Penny asked.
Bjorn shook his head. “No, what happened?”
“He disappeared while on holiday in Scotland. The authorities spent over two years searching for him. Initially, they thought he might’ve been kidnapped, but now they presume he was murdered.”
“Are there any suspects in the case?”
“Just one. According to witnesses, there was a tall, elderly gentleman who became incensed at Schroeder’s non-stop piano playing.”
“That’s terrible. Have police been able to gather enough evidence to link him to Schroeder’s disappearance?”
“No, and they’ve not found Schroeder’s body either.”
*speaking of memory, I may have posted this excerpt from Criminal Mimes previously. I honestly can’t remember. If so, that post was neither memorable or forgettable.
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